


The Inconvenient Haunting of William Weasley

by TangentiaLives



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, I swear, Nobody is Dead, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangentiaLives/pseuds/TangentiaLives
Summary: If you asked Bill Weasley about his ten year plan, it did not include being haunted by one (1) Hermione Granger, who tended to show up at the most inopportune times. One had to be dead to haunt you, after all, and she was most certainly not dead. Most of the time she was just mad.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bill Weasley
Comments: 76
Kudos: 334
Collections: Hermione's Nook Naked Weasley Fest!





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was created for the Hermione’s Nook Naked Weasley Fest in summer of 2020. It was a blast and a half getting to write with all those lovely people - go check out the collection for some really fun Weasley-centric fics!

“Excuse me.” 

Bill Weasley was so busy looking at the runic inscription on the exit to the tomb that he didn’t hear it the first time, his mind caught somewhere between  _ tehet  _ and  _ asrem _ . 

“Excuse me.” The voice was a little more insistent, and it caught his attention. “I think you’re missing something.”

Spinning around, he faced an incomprehensible sight. A young girl with wild brown hair, dressed in Hogwarts robes of all things, stood perhaps a metre away from him. Reflexively, he brought his wand up, his mind racing as he flipped through his mental catalogue of types of Egyptian ghosts, ghouls, and the like. She wasn’t transparent, which ruled out a large number of spiritual manifestations, but the fact she was opaque was slightly more worrying, considering the more powerful the nasties were, the more corporeal they became. 

“Don’t say a thing,” he commanded, his wand pointed squarely between her eyes, “or I’ll have you blown back to the dust you came from faster than you can say  _ Protego _ .”

Unhappily, the girl pursed her lips before speaking anyways. “You’re mistranslating the rune, that’s all.”

Poleaxed, he stared at her for a moment. “What?”

“The rune?” She looked at him as if he were crazy. “The one you were staring at. I heard you mumbling about it, and you’re missing the meaning when taken in a larger context.” She shrugged. “I just thought you should know.”

“And I should trust you why?” he wanted to know, though he was burning to turn around to take another look at the archway. If he was in fact mistranslating the  _ xomlit _ rune, chances were his counter incantation to get out of the damn place was missing some elements. 

The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. “Why would I lie to you? One minute, I was minding my own business in the library, and the next I was here.” Peering around the place, which consisted of leagues upon leagues of sand, a lot of ledges, some ancient, crumbling boxes, and a sarcophagus, she added, “Although  _ here _ does appear very interesting, actually. However, I would appreciate being sent back to Hogwarts, as I have a Transfiguration exam tomorrow that I’m revising for.”

Suspiciously, Bill waved his wand over her as he scanned her. It didn’t detect anything dark, really, so perhaps it was just a spirit that was drawing from his memories of his times at Hogwarts? It was really quite clever, if it was.

“I appreciate the advice,” he told the spirit, “but I don’t think I’ll take it, considering you’re more likely to try and use the inscription to try and possess me to escape this place.”

She huffed, jabbing the quill clutched in her hand into the mass of hair behind her ear. “I’m not a spirit. I’m a third year Hogwarts student.  _ Honestly. _ Here, touch me.”

Eyes narrowed, he reached for the hand she outstretched towards him only to snatch it back at the last moment. What had he been thinking? Even novice curse breakers knew better than to do something as idiotic as that.

“Nice try,” he snapped, glaring at her.

The bow of her mouth deepened into a frown. “No need to get shirty. Look,” she said, running out of patience, “just...examine the inscription. I’ll even walk all the way over there to that rather interesting sarcophagus to give you peace of mind.”

He watched as she did so, noting the deep footprints she left in the sand. That was another point towards her being corporeal, but it still didn’t explain how, in the name of Merlin, she had gotten in here. Ergo: a spirit. A devious spirit. 

“So if you think I’m not translating correctly, what do you think it is?” Sometimes he hated his incessant curiosity. It was going to get him killed. 

Her shoulders straightened and her eyes brightened. “Based on my quick glance at the inscription, I think that it’s a binding to keep all intruders in. So therefore the rune, which you’re translating strictly on its own as copper **,** is much better understood as the binding of an electrical—or perhaps spiritual, actually?—force when taken in conjunction with the two runes, _asrem_ and _khesbalit_ **,** surrounding it.” 

Wait. He frowned. That made a lot of sense. He whipped around to look at the old, hand-etched markings, his hand coming up to finger the protective fang amulet hanging from his ear as he leaned in closer. A moment later and he could see that she had the right of it. 

“That’s brilliant,” he breathed.

“Honestly, you’re as bad at Ronald.” She huffed.”Are all red-heads stubborn and prone to ignoring me?”

Ronald? As in his youngest brother, Ron? A spirit surely couldn’t know something so minute as  _ that. _

He spun back around, a slew of questions on his tongue as to how a third year Gryffindor girl had somehow gotten to the bowels of an Egyptian tomb, but when he looked where she had been only moments earlier, she was gone.


	2. Chapter Two

Bill had been upset that a last minute, urgent matter at Gringotts had kept him from the Quidditch World Cup, but he figured he would see his family again sooner or later. The Cup was obviously a spectacle he didn’t wish to miss, but the Quidditch-mad genes had somehow skipped over him and landed firmly with the younger crowd.

His prediction came true much sooner than he had anticipated when Professor Babbling asked him back to Hogwarts as a guest speaker for her classes. It came as a surprise, but he humbly accepted the offer. The goblins at Gringotts agreed to let him have the time, considering Professor Babbling’s request an opportunity to give little more than a thinly veiled recruitment speech. So off he went, back to the castle that he had called home for so many years. 

The older classes went by in a breeze, with eager students asking both genuine questions and also making thinly veiled flirtatious overtures that he easily batted away. He wasn’t immune to his looks, but this was certainly not the place to be pulling pretty witches. 

He had expected the youngest of the classes—the fourth years—to be rather more banal than the rest in that the questions he expected would be much less involved. By this point, he’d given his speech three times, so he was absent-mindedly discussing the virtues and pitfalls of his position when he was arrested mid-sentence by the sight of his Egyptian spirit studiously taking notes. 

“—and, ah, well, you, need a thorough understanding of Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Potions, and Charms,” he managed to pick up where he left off, though his mind was reeling. What was she doing here? Who  _ was _ she?

As he wound down on his speech, Professor Babbling thanked him and the class dutifully applauded him. It was all distant noise, and he offhandedly accepted the Professor’s invitation to have lunch in the Great Hall with them. Lunch was fine and good, but he wanted to speak to that witch before she up and disappeared yet again. 

Quickly, he made his way down the aisle and stopped by her desk, where she was still packing up her things. “What are you doing here?” he asked, somewhat accusatory. His mind was still stuck on the image of her trudging through the sand in the tomb and was having a damned hard time reconciling the two, though she looked much the same as she had then. 

She looked up at him, those burnished brown eyes glinting with sass. Smartly, she responded, “I think the better question is, what are  _ you _ doing here?” 

“What do you mean? It’s obvious what I’m doing here.” He waved a hand to encompass the room as a sufficient explanation. 

Her brow arched, and she shoved the last of her scrolls into her bag. “Then I would think it obvious what I’m doing here.” Her mouth did that  _ thing _ where it conveyed equal measures of irritation and amusement, and she said, “Do keep up, Mr Weasley.”

With that, she fairly flounced out of the room, leaving him scrambling after her. It was only after he saw her sitting next to Ron and a boy with a mop of black hair that must be none other than Harry Potter that he realized she must be Hermione Granger, the witch Ron had mentioned off-handedly several times. 

He must have been staring long enough that his gaze caught her attention, for in between bites of chicken, she paused and turned her head, an inquisitive look in her eyes. Embarrassingly, Bill felt his cheeks flush at being caught, and he returned to appreciating his own meal of shepherd’s pie with rather more attention than necessary.


	3. Chapter Three

Hermione Granger, as he had discovered by virtue of a thorough interrogation of his younger siblings, was a very interesting witch. Ron had mentioned the girl off-handedly multiple times within his earshot, but before he understood that she was the same witch that had somehow (he had yet to figure it out) shown up in his tomb, he wouldn’t have given her a second thought. His youngest brother had described her as a bushy haired know-it-all eager for attention, while George and Fred had described her somewhat admiringly for her almost encyclopaedic knowledge of, according to them, almost everything. 

What none of them mentioned was a penchant for abrupt and sudden appearances. He almost considered asking them if she had done anything of the sort before, but when he considered the looks on their faces and the ribbing sure to follow, he held off. Instead, he turned to books to see if there was somehow a way she could have suddenly apparated internationally to a closed off crypt that she most certainly had never been to before. 

The answer, he determined after extensive searching, was no. And yet...

“Are you really thinking about purchasing  _ that? _ ”

He whipped around, finding Hermione’s critical gaze focused on the settee he was considering buying for the flat. 

“What are you doing here? And don’t insult it. There’s nothing wrong with it,” he said defensively. 

“If you think I’m planning these little escapades,” she told him, “you’re quite mistaken. I was in the middle of studying in the library with Viktor Krum, if you must know, and I was quite enjoying it.”

He frowned at her. “The international Quidditch star?” he asked, curious despite himself.

“That’s the one. He’s actually quite a genius at Charms work. Who would have thought?”

“Huh.” He certainly would’ve. A Quidditch star—no.  _ No _ . He was not going to be drawn into that particular conversation with her. “So you...what? Were just plucked out of the sky and put here?”

Hermione smoothed out her robes. “It seems like it. Apparently someone thought the bad decision you were about to make was worth sending me here to stop you. Really, what were you thinking?” She turned a rather baleful gaze on him. “Bill, it has  _ stripes _ .”

“It’s lively!”

“And purple.”

“Yes, well—” he stopped, looked at it again, and closed his mouth. “It really is hideous, isn’t it?”

She nodded smugly, her curls bouncing every which way.

“It’s not as if anyone teaches interior decorating.” His mouth pulled down in what Mum would call a pout and he would more generously call a dignified frown. “How am I supposed to know what’s good?”

Her mouth twitched. “Well,” she said, “if this is any indication of your decorating prowess, may I politely suggest that you choose the exact opposite of what you think is in good taste. For example, may I suggest that settee over there?” 

She pointed at an extremely nondescript one pushed against the wall.

“But that’s boring.”

Tilting her head, she huffed impatiently. “That’s the  _ point _ . You don’t want your furniture to be the showstopper. It should be in the background. Honestly.”

Surely that couldn’t be right. Mulishly, he repeated, “I don’t want boring furniture.”

“Do you want clashing furniture that drowns everything out, or a nice set of things that work well together? What would your Mum say?” She paused, then made a face. “Actually, never mind.”

He laughed at that. Mum had truly terrible taste in decorating. “You make a fair point on that.” And if she thought he might be getting something as bad as the stuff at the Burrow... “So, the tan one?”

“Either that or another one. I think they all work well.”

Thoughtfully, he looked over at a light grey one with tall arms. She did have a point, really, though he was loath to admit it. After all, she was only—

“Why the hell am I listening to you?” He crossed his arms. “You’re only fourteen. What do you know about bloody furniture?”

She smirked. “More than you do, apparently.”

Because he was an  _ adult _ who did  _ responsible things _ , he magnanimously chose to overlook her comment, instead focusing on what was truly more important than what color settee he was about to get.

“While I do appreciate your help shopping,” he told her dryly, “do you have any idea why this is happening? I would very much like for this to stop, you know. It’s rather—” he searched for a polite word, “Inconvenient for this to happen.”

Her brow arched. “And you think it’s convenient for me? Do you think this is some kind of party trick or something that I’m enjoying?”

He flushed. It had crossed his mind, that was true, but he hadn’t heard of  _ anyone _ being able to systematically teleport to someone’s side, let alone a young, albeit brilliant, teenage witch.

“I’m sure it isn’t particularly enjoyable for either of us,” he corrected himself, “which is why I wanted to see if you perhaps had a theory. We could pool our resources, so to say.”

Her furrowed brows and tensed mouth eased. “Well,” she said somewhat swottily, “I was thinking it could be—”

Between one breath and the next, she was gone. 

“Unbelievable,” he said to himself, pushing his hand through his hair. “Just like that. Well. Fine.”

And of course, somehow he ended up with the tan settee she recommended.


	4. Chapter Four

If he was being perfectly honest, it wasn’t that bad once he figured out she truly wasn’t trying to trick him. One time, she showed up in her pyjamas with two quills stuck in her hair and a book in her hand, and her absolutely enraged expression convinced him as nothing else could. Luckily, he was home alone that night instead of out at a bar trying to pull a bird, and so she sat cross legged on the foot of his bed reading a book until whatever it was bringing her here decided it was time to send her back. In that time, they had managed to have a completely civil discourse over the possible things Harry could encounter in the maze and different ways to combat them, and she had told him several truly amusing anecdotes about his siblings that he had been glad to hear. 

It was so hard being the oldest, he thought ruefully, because he missed so much of them growing up. 

The next time he saw her months later, Hermione herself had grown up a bit, her form filling out quite nicely. It wasn’t that he was  _ trying _ to notice, he thought peevishly. It was that he couldn’t  _ help _ but notice, given she was in thin pyjamas yet again, this time without any shorts. 

“Er, hello,” she told him, blushing furiously. “I was in the middle of changing. Do you happen to have any trousers I could borrow?”

He smirked. “How’s it feel to be caught off guard?” 

“Oh, shut up,” she said crossly. “Will you stop saying things like that? This is happening to the both of us, you know.”

“Hermione,” he said fondly, “I just like how mad you get every time I bait you. One would think you’d know to stop reacting like that every time if you hung around my brothers enough. Merlin, they must take the mickey out of you all the bloody time.”

Her growl and subsequent glowering was proof enough that, yes, they did. “If you just stop responding, they’ll stop teasing you so much, you know. I’ve got six siblings. I know what I’m talking about, so take my advice.”

She arched a brow. “It’s a bit hard to take you seriously, what with that dragon fang you insist on wearing. I’m sure it’s just a lady killer.”

His hand went up to his ear defensively. “It’s a ward!” 

Her disbelieving look said it all. “A ward.”

He nodded.

“Right,” she said. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“The fang is staying,” he insisted.

She held her hands up. “I’m not saying it shouldn’t. I’m just saying that you look a bit ridiculous, that’s all.”

“And you’ve only just gone and said that now? After a year and a half of this—” he circled his hand between the two of them demonstratively “—whatever it is, and you’re only just now telling me?”

“In my defense, you do seem rather attached to it, Mr ‘It’s a Defensive Ward’ Weasley. Besides, who am I to comment on your taste in fashion? I’ve got none at all, really.” Her own tone had slid towards self-consciousness, and he paused at that.

“You’ve never looked horrid when I’ve seen you,” he said comfortingly. 

She burst into laughter. “How comforting,” she replied sarcastically. “One for the books, even. Hermione Granger: the girl who never looked horrid.”

He reached forward and patted her foot. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Really, you’re good looking for a bird.”

Flatly, she said, “I’ve got crazy hair, I hardly sleep, and I’ve got no taste in clothes. I wouldn’t go that far, Bill, but thanks, and all that.”

Her expression said she was dead serious, and he felt a twinge in his chest. “Really, ‘Mione. The hair’s wild, sure, but it frames your face. And any bloke who knows what’s what knows that a smart brain is better than a smart fashion sense. I typically dig around in the crypts in holey trousers and beaten up trainers. There’s no place for fashion with the dead, you know.”

By the time she left that night, she looked slightly mollified, and he hoped he had helped her self-esteem somewhat. She really was a nice looking bird. In a few years, he thought, she’d be a right looker.


	5. Chapter Five

“Bill! William Weasley, are you there?” The loud, authoritative voice of Minerva McGonagall still had the power to rouse him from a dead sleep and he bolted upright, stumbling to the living room where the fireplace was. 

“Professor McGonagall?” He asked groggily, looking at the time. Half two. Nothing good ever came out of being pulled out of bed at such a later hour. 

“Yes. I’m sorry for the interruption, and so late at night, too, but I have a bit of a situation I need your help with.” Her visage was exhausted and somewhat heartsick. 

Immediately, he replied, “Yes, of course. What’s the matter?” 

His Head of House paused, seeming to collect her thoughts for a moment, before continuing. “First, I think you ought to know there’s been an incident at the Ministry of Magic tonight. Your brother—“

“—my  _ brother?”  _ He exclaimed, having expected to hear something horrible about his father given the setting. 

“Yes, your brother.” She gave him a somewhat withering look for interrupting. “As I was saying, your brother Ron is fine, although he did have a rather up close encounter with a  _ sinciput tentaculus _ . Rather dangerous, those, but something I think he’ll recover from with some time and rest. However, his friend, Hermione Granger, was not so fortunate. She was severely cursed with some kind of hex that we don’t know the origins of. I was hoping you might help us—“

‘Mione, hurt? The thought made his head reel and his stomach drop. Without thought, he summoned his bag even as he stepped into the fire. “I’m coming.” 

Minerva blinked in surprise at his speedy response. “Come to the Infirmary. I’ve opened the floo to connect you there.” 

A bare instant later and he was walking into the familiar place. It was buzzing with activity, and he saw the familiar green robes of a few St. Mungo’s Healers stationed by the beds. Whatever had happened must have been grave indeed. 

“Bill.” Minerva greeted him without fanfare, her face pinched and tight with stress. “She’s this way.” 

The sight of Ron being worked on by several Healers made him drag his feet, but Minerva’s brusque reassurance that he was being well taken care of made him feel good enough to keep going. Besides, it was Hermione that he had been summoned to help, and by Merlin that was exactly what he was going to do. 

When he caught sight of her for the first time, he pulled up short, his blood turning to ice in his veins. She was pale, almost paler than the crisp white sheets she lay on, and her hair was matted with blood. It was everywhere, really, deep crimson and bright red. The two Mungo’s Healers were bent over her chest, which was gaping open from a deep, pulsating wound. 

He made a sound of utter negation and lunged towards her, his hand coming to grip her lifeless one in his own. “‘Mione,” he rasped, his voice sounding as though it had been ground under a Minotaur’s hooves. “‘Mione, it’s me. Bill. I’m here.”

“Get out of the way,” one of the Healers snapped. “You’re not being helpful if all you’re going to do is cry over her hand.”

The other Healer, a sturdy, dark-skinned man, made a thoughtful sound deep in his throat. “Actually, Priscilla, I think it very well might be. Look at these readings.”

Priscilla leaned over and peered at the scan floating over Hermione’s body even as her wand kept up a steady movement over the wound over the witch’s chest. A moment later she exhaled sharply, turning to look at him. “When were you going to inform us that you have a bond with her?”

“A what?”

“A bond,” she repeated impatiently. “I can almost see where your magic is feeding into hers. She’s literally pulling life-saving magic from you.”

“Bill?” Professor McGonagall said questioningly. “I didn’t know you knew Hermione.”

“I—well—we…” he stumbled to explain. “I shouldn’t, really. But she showed up one day in the tomb of Sekhmet Abd Al Kader when I was spelled in. I likely would’ve died if she hadn’t shown up, actually.” Absently, he went to pull at his dragon fang before remembering he’d removed it all those months ago. The habit was still engrained. “The crypt had been sealed against tomb-robbers, you see, and I had been having a deuced hard time figuring out how to counter the runes.”

The nicer Healer looked at him, frowning. “An Egyptian curse, perhaps? Something to link you together?”

Next to him, Minerva thoughtfully tapped her fingers against her chin. “Doubtful. But something surely occurred to link them together then. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have shown up. But you’re saying he’s helping merely by being here?”

Priscilla nodded. “Her magic isn’t trying to reach out for his across such a long distance, and his has much less further to travel. See this?” she pointed at a reading. “All her levels are picking up. I think she’s stabilizing enough we can begin to try and close the wound rather than try and simply forestall things.”

“And to think that I had thought you’d be able to countermand the curse.” Minerva gave him a pointed look that promised an interrogation later on. “Very interesting...I wonder what Molly will have to say about this?”

She smirked at his wince. “Please don’t,” he all but begged her. “It’s not—we’re not—it’s…”

Hermione suddenly seized on the bed, her back bowing as she screamed in pain. “Adewale!” Priscilla snapped, and the other Healer kept on with the low voiced incantation he had started only moments later even as Priscilla bound his witch to the bed, restraints slipping over her legs. 

For a brief moment in time, Bill felt an echo of her pain ripping across his own chest, fire and agony racing across his skin. He ripped his own shirt open in an attempt to see what was going on and recoiled in shock even as the pain faded. In its wake, though, was a deep scarlet mark that reached across his chest from his left collarbone to his right hip bone, the edges dark and jagged just like Hermione’s. 

“What in the hell is that?”

Adewale looked up at him and arched a brow. “Forget a marital bond, Priscilla. They’re bloody soul bonded.”


	6. Chapter Six

Several weeks later, Bill still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Him and Hermione, bound at a soul deep level? For what reason?

Still, he couldn’t deny it. His mere presence by her bedside had helped speed her recovery, her magic drawing from his to help fight against her truly grievous injuries. Even as he had spent day after day by her side, often holding her hand or reading to her, he still couldn’t fathom the magnitude of what they had told him, and he left shortly after she had been pronounced stable enough to move to St. Mungo’s for further treatment. 

The memory of Priscilla and Adewale’s non-judgmental and compassionate gazes still made him feel hot and guilty. He had just needed time, he had explained to them. Time to understand what had occurred to forge the bond, and what he was going to do about it. Could they please not tell Hermione about it?

The last was what made him lose sleep at night, if he were being perfectly honest. And when he did sleep, he was often greeted with images of her bloody, supine form lying motionless on the sheets. 

For a while he was thoughtful, but eventually he became angry. “Damn that girl,” he muttered as he trudged through the French catacombs. “Why her? Why me, for that matter?” The toe of his boot caught on a jagged edge of stone and he tripped, cursing colorfully as he caught himself. “I hate this place.”

“‘aving trouble?” A cool, elegant voice slid out of the darkness of the catacombs and he raised his wand, peering ahead. Moments later, an ethereally beautiful woman came into the light, her piercing sapphire eyes appraising him. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked suspiciously. 

“I zink ze better question ees, what are _you_ doing ‘ere?” Piercing blue eyes looked at him. “Zis ees Gringotts territory.”

“I’m a cursebreaker with the British branch,” he said shortly. “They asked me to come here to look at a potential vault that had been hidden by a _malediction de la morté_.” 

A pale brow arched. “Ah.” She turned, silken hair glinting in the dim light. “Zis way. You are in ze wrong part of ze catacombs.”

He frowned, feeling even more put upon. First Hermione, then this girl. Why did women always show up on his jobs and tell him he was wrong? It was enough to give a man a complex.

“Thanks,” he said shortly. “I’m Bill, by the way. Bill Weasley.”

She looked over her shoulder, her pink lips curled up at the edges. “Fleur. Fleur Delacour.”

With her help, the job went quickly once he was at the correct area. She was quick with a wand, and he admired her rather encyclopaedic knowledge of ward breaking spells. They identified several wards, and in the span of several hours working together, tore them down. At last, an imposing, yet familiar metal vault door stood in front of them. 

“There it is,” he said in satisfaction, even as a rivulet of slimy water fell from the damp ceiling and down his collar. “Excellent work.”

Appraisingly, she looked at him. “You ‘ave not said one zing zis entire time about me.”

Was he supposed to? “You have an excellent grasp of anti-warding spells,” he said at last.

She laughed, the sound clear and bell-like. “I like you. ‘ould you like to get dinner?”

He fairly goggled at her. “Are all the French so straightforward?”

“ _I_ am so straightforward. Now, dinner?”

Thoughtfully, he focused on her. Tall, svelte, stunningly beautiful and terrifyingly smart. “Yes, absolutely.”

Hours later, he was stuffed full of positively orgasmic food, laughing as Fleur detailed yet another tight spot her little sister, Gabrielle, had gotten into.

“That’s just like Gin,” he said laughingly. “Or ‘Mione, really. They both tend to get into quite a bit of trouble.”

“‘Oo eez zis ‘Mione? Yet anozzer sister?” Fleur asked, a smirk on her face as she ribbed him. 

Good naturedly, he laughed. “You would think, but no. She’s a—” He didn’t know quite how to describe her. A friend? A witch who often showed up uninvited, but one who he got along with quite well? A young woman who he had somehow found himself soulbound to with no viable explanation?

“A…?”

“A friend,” he finally settled on, though the term felt woefully inadequate. “She’s a friend.”

Fleur nodded, satisfied, and continued on in their conversation. It was a perfectly lovely one. She was funny, dry, and extremely smart, not to mention unbelievably beautiful. 

Literally almost unbelievably. At one point, their waiter spilled the water he was pouring because he couldn’t stop looking at her. Fleur graciously waved away his sputtering apologies, keeping her poise. 

“Does that happen often?” he couldn’t help but ask. 

She shrugged, the motion making her silken hair gleam in the dim light of the restaurant. “Eet comes with my lineage. I am used to eet.”

“Your lineage?” What, were the Delacours famed for beauty or something of the sort?

She stared at him, her blue eyes disbelieving. “You ‘ave no idea, do you? You really, truly do not feel eet.”

He shook his head. “A little help would be nice?”

“Just when I had thought…” she trailed off and sighed. “I am part Veela, Bill.”

He made a considering face. “That would explain the waiter.”

“I am amazed that you are not similarly affected.” She leaned forward, a glint in her eyes. “You must truly love her.” 

He sat back, frowning. “In love? Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She arched a delicate brow. “Only zose who are truly in love are not affected by a Veela’s allure. Zis entire meal, not once ‘ave you shown any indication zat you are drawn in.” Wistfully, she smiled. “It was nice. But I will not take anozzer witch’s wizard. I will not.”

Exasperated, he raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t have another witch, Fleur.”

  
Knowingly, she looked at him. “Do you not? Your heart says otherwise, _mon ami_.” Fluidly, she rose from her seat and bussed his cheek. “Do not wait too long to figure eet out, or she will be gone before you know it.”


	7. Chapter Seven

As far as Bill could tell, the only witch who could possibly fit the bill of his so-called love was Hermione. He hardly interacted with any other witches outside of work or his family these days, given that he was so often out on missions. What with things worsening with Voldemort’s more brazen movements as well, things like romance were certainly not on his mind. 

But really,  _ Hermione _ ? 

Wasn’t he just cursing her only days before? (And avoiding thinking about her, his mind unhelpfully supplied.) She had been the source of much anxiety and sleepless nights in the last year or so, but that was because of their unusual situation. 

Speaking of their unusual situation, could it be that it was their soul bond that had perhaps interfered with the effect Fleur should have had on him? After all, it was a soul bond, so it must have protected him from untoward influences like Veelas. 

At the thought, he triumphantly slapped the table. “That’s definitely it,” he announced, feeling much better about it all. 

Humphries, two desks down from him in the office, gave him a sidelong look. 

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “I just...figured out the ward breaking spell for this.” He motioned at the dilapidated box sitting on the desk in front of him. “Don’t mind me.”

A judgmental brow arched, Humphries returned to his own work, leaving Bill to focus on his box (which he had most certainly not figured out).

“Oh, are those coptic runes?” Hermione asked brightly from behind him. 

Bill, used to her sudden appearances, barely flinched. Humphries, on the other hand, almost fell out of his seat, while Grahame, on his other side, raised a hand. “Hey Hermione.”

“Hi Doughall.” She waved back casually. 

Looking between the two, Bill frowned. “You know each other?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I’m not exactly by you when you show up, you know. We’ve run into each other a couple times.”

Doughall nodded sagely. “She’s got an excellent eye for runic sequences.”

“As if I don’t know that,” Bill replied peevishly. “She helped me get out of Sekhmet’s tomb when I tripped the alarms.”

Turning to face Hermione full on, Bill froze. She was paler than he’d ever seen her and still in her pyjamas even though it was going on quarter past four. 

“Should you be up at all?” he demanded, rising from his chair and guiding her to it. “You’re paler than snow.”

“I was going to the loo,” she said wryly. “The Healers won’t quite let me up yet. I’m sure they’ll be up in arms by the time I get back.”

Exasperated, he tugged on one of her crazy curls. “That’s because you’re an invalid.”

She batted his hands away before crossing her arms, albeit gingerly. “I’m well enough to move around,” she shot back.

Challengingly, he shot back, “Oh yeah? Then why did I see you wince when you sat down?” 

“It’s just the new scar tissue,” she dismissed out of hand. “It still pulls.”

Merlin. She was as bad as everyone else he worked with. “Sit still for a mo’ and I’ll take you back to Mungos.” He began gathering everything up and stuffing it into his satchel. The box would have to wait.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not your responsibility. Besides, I’ll vanish back anyways soon enough.” Her tone was wry. “I think we’ve learned that well enough in the past few years.”

Grahame leaned over, his pale green eyes extremely interested. “Are you the bird he’s been moaning about, then?”

Hermione’s brows shot sky high, and Bill groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Not helping, Grahame.”

“I don’t know,” she replied sweetly, turning a suddenly appraising eye on him. “Precisely what kind of things has he been saying?”

His coworker—who was going to find himself in an early grave later this week if Bill had any say—shrugged. “He’s been going on about some witch who kept interrupting him all the time. At first he kind of hated her, but if you ask me, he’d grown rather fond of her.”

Spinning around, Bill pointed a finger at an unrepentantly grinning Grahame. “I’m going to murder you.”

The wizard shrugged. “‘S not as if I’m not gonna die sooner rather than later.”

Stifling a growl, Bill took Hermione by the arm, gently pulling her up despite his irritation at his meddling coworker. “Ready?” 

Indulgently, she patted his chest. “Yes. I’ll get them to check you out, too.”

Check  _ him  _ out? “For what?”

She smirked. “A condition that makes you a recurrent whinger. It could be a chronic condition. After all, Grahame said you’ve been moaning for years.”

The wizard in question was still laughing as Bill apparated them away.


	8. Chapter Eight

“Hello Bill.” Her pleasant voice sounded right in front of him, and he fairly leapt out of his skin as he spied her standing a metre or so  _ right in front of the tub _ . He yelped, scrambling to cover himself from her ever-discerning and inquisitive gaze. At his reaction, she smirked, though her expression had turned thoughtful at the sight of his torso. “Ah,” she said, as if his naked body had explained something. “I see.”

“I don’t want you to ‘see’  _ anything _ ! Get out of my loo!” He lunged forward to close the curtain, but her low laughter curled around the edges. 

“I can’t help when it brings me here, and you know it. In fact,” her tone grew peevish, “I was getting ready for Slughorn’s and I need all the time I can get to look somewhat presentable.” 

“Well,” he shot back, “I need privacy to  _ finish my bath _ , which you so nicely interrupted, thank you very much, so it looks like we’re both out of luck. If you wouldn’t mind leaving?”

She sighed, and he heard her tapping her shoes against the tile. “Bill. You know as well as I do that I don’t decide when these happen. Stop telling me to leave. I can’t. Well,” she hesitated, “maybe I could try to actually leave the room. For the sake of experimentation, I should try that. But I’m not doing it because you told me to, mind you.” A minute later, the door clicked shut, and he took the moment to lunge for his towel and wrap himself in it. 

A bare second later and she came right back in as he knew she would have. “It worked!” she announced. “I can exit the room. You know, I wasn’t sure about line of sight proximity, but apparently it really isn’t an issue after all. How intriguing.”

Normally, he would have been rolling his eyes at her swotty behaviour, but he was stuck trying to reconcile his objective knowledge that this was Hermione with the rest of his brain, which was going,  _ that’s a real good looking bird right there.  _

She hadn’t been kidding when she said she was dressing up for the New Year’s Party. Her hair had been tamed into submission, a long sheet of shining,  _ straight _ , chestnut hair falling to mid back. A rather fetching black dress hugged her body, and her dainty feet were encased in short kitten heels that made her legs look incredibly long. 

“Hermione,” he said around a suddenly dry mouth, “what the hell are you wearing?”

Well. That had not been a smooth opening gambit.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes, lined around the edges with black ink to make them even more vivid than usual, snapped with sudden temper. “Is it any business of yours what I’m wearing, William Weasley? I don’t think so.”

It was certainly his business when she was going somewhere looking like  _ that _ and he wasn’t going to be there. After all, she was his, and had been his—

His brain ground to a halt. What was he thinking? She wasn’t his. She was just his ghost, as he liked to call her. His irritating, inconvenient ghost. 

Who had somehow, when he hadn’t been looking, become as stunningly beautiful on the outside as she was on the inside. 

“Well?” she prompted, mouth pursed. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Only that you should cover yourself up. Merlin, you’re likely to get a cold. It’s freezing outside right now, don’t you know it?”

There. That rather saved his arse, though it made him sound awfully like Mum. 

“I appreciate your...hm...concern,” she returned saucily, “but I think I’m able to make decisions about my wardrobe without your input. But thanks, and all that.”

Bill was not about to tell her that his ‘concern’ was more centered around the sudden seething jealousy taking up place in his chest at the idea that other blokes would see her like that.

Meanwhile, her rather ferocious brain was working overtime, and she had somehow arrived at the exact wrong conclusion. Suddenly worried, she asked, “Or is it that it makes me look horrid and you’re trying to politely tell me that?” 

She spun around to show the dress off, and he was uncomfortably aware of just how  _ not horrid _ it made her look. The dip at the back, though modest, made him think rather….impure thoughts. “Gin said that it fit rather well,” she went on uncertainly, “but if you don’t think it does…”

“No.” The word was out before he consciously even thought it. “No, you look beautiful. You’ll knock all the blokes on their arses, looking like that.”

Her smile grew, but then she bit her lip. “Bill,” she said suddenly, “do you think….well. Could you...would you ever consider, perhaps—”

The tension, which had been rising between them, snapped as she vanished. 

“Shite.” He sat on the edge of the tub, still in his damp towel. “What the bloody hell was that?


	9. Chapter Nine

Strange gasping noises alerted Bill to someone else’s existence in the kitchen. Whirling around, he assumed a defensive posture even as he held his wand in front of him. 

At first he didn’t realize that the still form lying on the ground in front of him was Hermione. Her hair was matted and tangled, her body splayed out in a rictus of agony even as it shuddered uncontrollably. 

His entire being revolted at the sight of her on the cheerful yellow carpet and he rushed forward, crouching by her. “Hermione!”

Her body gave one last convulsion before it went limp. She was so still that he thought she had—she had—

But no. Her breath warmed his palm as he held his hand over her slightly open mouth. “Thank Merlin,” he whispered, relieved. 

“Bill?” her eyes fluttered, though she made no movement. A single tear streaked down her dirty cheek as she looked at him through slitted eyes as though he were the most precious thing she had ever seen. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, gathering her unresisted form in his arms. “Yeah, it’s me. Where are you? Where are you hurt?”

“Malfoy Manor,” she murmured, beginning to shift in his arms as urgency took her. Her voice grew stronger as she pulled away, though her entire body continued to shiver and shake in the wake of what he expected was a prolonged  _ Crucio _ . “Bill. Listen to me. They’ve got Harry and Ron. I’m not sure when I’ll be…” Her voice caught. “When I’ll be returned there, but if I don’t make it out—if we don’t make it out—I need to tell you what we’ve done.”

Rapidly, she sketched out their progress, her eyes haunted and her clothes hanging on her. Greedily, still, he drank in the sight of her, unable to resist tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, unable to stop feeling her against him. 

Alive. She was alive. 

In the midst of her rapidfire explanation about what they had done, he simply tucked her in close. “It’s okay,” he told her, his lips against her hair. “It’s okay. Just let me hold you.”

She froze against him. “I can’t,” she said almost inaudibly. “If I relax, I don’t think I can...I don’t think I can go back.” The feeling of her tears against his neck made his heart clench. “Bill, I don’t know if I can take it. Bellatrix, she—she…”

His arms tightened around her convulsively. “You’re a fighter. You’ll make it. You  _ have  _ to make it, or I’ll...I don’t know what I would do without you in my life.” He brushed a kiss against her temple. “Live for me, Hermione. Live for us.”

For a long time, she was silent. He waited, heart in his throat, for her response. 

At last, she whispered, “For us.” 

“That’s it,” he praised. “That’s it. You can do it. You’re going to live through this. You’ll be fine, darling girl.”

She shuddered against him, curling into him like a wounded animal. “I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want—”

And she was gone. 

The sudden absence of her slight weight in his arms made something within him curl up. “Dammit!” he pounded his fist on the ground viciously, a fierce anger borne of helplessness burning through him. “Bloody buggering hell.” 

He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking. 

  
She had to be alright. She  _ had  _ to.


	10. Chapter Ten

“Did you know that Sekhmet Abd Al Kadur was known for being mischievous?” Grahame sidled up to him with this rather stellar conversational gambit. 

Sorting through a pile of papers while trying to find the parchment he’d scribbled notes about the Transfigurational properties of wood encased iron, he looked up. “Who?”

His coworker looked nonplussed. “Sekhmet Abd Al Kadur?” he repeated. “The tomb you got stuck in back in 1993?” 

Ah. That one. “Yeah. What about her?” 

“She really liked to play tricks, according to the papyri we found in one of the chests in her tomb. I was thinking about you and Hermione, you know—”

“I’m not sure whether to be worried or outright terrified by that—”

“—and I think you must have tripped some kind of curse or blessing when you came in,” Doughall continued right over Bill’s snarky comment. 

He arched a brow. “Likely story, mate, but go on.”

“You see,” the Scottsman ploughed on, his brogue getting thicker in his excitement, “I did a wee bit of research in the last few months, and it turns out that she liked to play matchmaker, but in a rather roundabout way. Instead of setting her friends up, she’d curse—or bless, depending on your point of view, I suppose—them with things like ‘finding the one who makes you laugh the most’ or ‘summon the one who will be the most help to you’. Really, they were quite complex incantations, but that doesn’t matter.”

Hm. “‘Summon the one who will be the most help to you’?” he repeated.

Grahame nodded enthusiastically, holding up an extremely fragile looking piece of papyrus. That was a definite breach in protocol, Bill noted absently. “Yes, exactly that. She did it to a friend named Nefertiti, who apparently had a friend named Na’eemah that suddenly started appearing by her side randomly. Even though Nefertiti initially told Sekhmet it was the worst thing that could have ever happened to her, she eventually changed her mind and thanked her because they ended up falling in love.” 

Pointing at some indeterminate line on the papyrus, Grahame finished, “In the papyrus, Sekhmet said she couldn’t imagine life without Na’eemah, although she did mention that she was rather upset Na’eemah stopped showing up at her side after they confessed their mutual love.”

At his last statement, Grahame raised his sandy blonde brows and waggled them suggestively. 

Still caught up in his story of Nefertiti and Na’eemah, Bill completely overlooked his coworker’s insinuation. “That does match rather well…” he mused. 

“Are you even listening?” Grahame waved the papyrus at him, exasperated. “They fell  _ in love _ .”

“That’s nice for them,” he replied absently. 

“In the interest of getting Doughall to shut up,” Humphries’ beleaguered voice sounded on the other side of him, “what he’s trying to say is that he thinks you and Hermione should also be in love.”

“Not that they should be in love,” Grahame fairly vibrated with excitement. “That they  _ are _ in love!”

Wait, was this why Grahame had been pulling such long hours recently? 

Dryly, Bill told his coworker, “I think you need to find a new hobby.”

“Am I right? Am I?”

A soft smile lifted his lips as he thought about how Hermeione had shifted in bed that morning to press her face into his pillow after he had gotten out of bed. She had been sound asleep when he had woken up, blessedly free from nightmares that had woken her up for the last few weeks as she recovered from the last year. 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “You are. But Doughall?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m with Nefertiti on this one. I’m going to miss having ‘Mione show up, but at least I get to see her all the time now instead of random happenstance.”

Later that night after he recounted the story as they were cuddled in bed, Hermione seemed unsurprised. 

“Did you know?” he asked as she idly traced the scarlet mark on his chest that mirrored hers. 

She nodded. “I had done a little research and talked to Grahame about it awhile back after I saw the mark on your chest last year. When I saw that you mirrored my injuries—” she grimaced in apology, “I knew something had happened, not to mention the fact that I felt so much better after Dolohov’s attack just by being around you.”

“You felt that? My magic flowing into you?”

Hermione gave a fond smile before darting in and kissing him softly. “Yeah, I did. It felt so healing, like warmth and home all at once. It really helped me.”

Gently, honestly, he said, “I would do anything for you, Hermione.”

She tangled their fingers together. “I know, Bill. I love you too.”

It was fine that she wouldn’t haunt his waking hours periodically any more, he thought as he sought her mouth with his own and stroked his hands down her sides. 

Now he had his witch with him in truth, whenever and wherever he wanted her. 


End file.
